The Serial
by TheNeme
Summary: After a news broadcast brings disturbing news to light, Shuichi and the rest must try to keep it together.
1. The Beginning

**Title:** The Serial: The Beginning

**Blood Type:** Midol.

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the _law_.

**Warnings:**

**Author's Notes: **Next up: The Newsflash

---

He sincerely wished that it could have been dark and rainy, for that was how all suspense novels started, but as it turned out the day dawned bright and sunny, a gentle breeze stirring the leaves on the trees in the park.

When committing murder, it was important to choose a time carefully; one had to make sure that there would be no witnesses about and especially – _especially_ – no police. Therefore, it was beneficial to commit the act very late at night or very early in the morning. And it was indeed, very early in the morning and the jogger would be rounding the corner any second, as he did every morning at five.

And he would pay. _They_ would pay. They would all pay.

And so he waited, somewhat impatiently. Five minutes passed and he wondered if perhaps the jogger wouldn't come. Perhaps the jogger had overslept and was running late to work. But no, there he was, rounding the corner, without his black-framed glasses, but the jogger was unmistakable: he had the look of a businessman that spent too much time worrying, nearly palpable in its magnitude.

His moment was here. His moment was now. And he took it.


	2. The Newsflash

**Title:** The Serial: The Newsflash

**Blood Type:** Midol.

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the _law_.

**Warnings:** None.

**Author's Notes: **Next up: The Interlude!

---

"Authorities are currently investigating a 'suspicious death' that occurred early this morning in Ueno Park. The police report identifies the body as that of Sakano Kimihiro, aged 35. Any information surrounding the circumstances in this case should be directed to the authorities immediately."

Shuichi choked on his cereal. Spluttering, he fumbled for his teacup, downing the contents in order to dislodge a particularly stubborn flake.

The news continued, heedless of Shuichi's frantic demand that it rewind itself and go back.

"May I ask why you're assaulting my television set?" Eiri asked, coming out of his office, an unlit cigarette perched on his lower lip.

Shuichi let out a nearly ear-shattering cry.

Eiri grunted in response and decided he definitely needed a cup of coffee and his lighter before this conversation continued.

When he came back, not five minutes later, feeling peaceful (because of the cigarette) and slightly more human (because of the coffee), he found Shuichi clutching the television in his lap. This, however, was not unusual. Nor were the fat tears that dropped woefully on top of the glossy black finish of the set. Through the tears, the accompanying sniffles and the requisite creaking from the television set that expressed that it would not like to be held so tightly, Shuichi seemed to be murmuring something. What was more, he was murmuring it over and over and over.

Eiri let out what was possibly the most long-suffering of all the sighs he'd ever sighed. Given that this was his first one—a fact which, after he'd noticed, almost made him sigh again—he was forced to admit that Shuichi was beginning to change him in a way he didn't altogether like.

"Idiot. Let go of the television before you break it," he muttered, setting his coffee cup directly on the surface of the coffee table. This was primarily because Shuichi had an irritating habit of writing banal lyrics all over the coasters. Therefore, Eiri had stopped buying them.

"S-s-s," Shuichi hissed. He took a deep breath and tried again. "Sa—" he managed to expectorate before his words collapsed into a sort of wailing sob.

Eiri sighed again, but didn't acknowledge it. It was turning out to be a damned difficult day. He had sighed twice and very nearly managed to avoid sighing a third time based upon the aforementioned first two. Doing it a third time would very nearly make it into a habit. Eiri held his breath. He held it for thirty seconds before deciding that what would really alleviate his fast-souring mood would be another drag on his cigarette.

"Sakano-san was murdered!" Shuichi exclaimed in a rush before seemingly collapsing in on himself, his sobs rendering themselves into more of a gentle weeping.

Eiri nearly choked on the lungful of mentholated smoke he had just drawn. With difficulty, he expelled it and took a deep drink from his previously neglected coffee cup. He had entirely expected Shuichi's crying to be about something entirely inane, like his favorite anime being cancelled. He felt the need to sit down in a sudden manner, which he ignored. Simultaneously, he felt the need to cough in order to remove a last, lingering tendril of smoke from a place where smoke should no longer have been, which he indulged in.

"Well, that's interesting," he said, polishing off his coffee and going back into the kitchen.


	3. The Interlude

**Title:** The Serial: The Interlude

**Blood Type:** Midol.

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the _law_.

**Warnings:** None.

**Author's Notes: **Next up: The American!

---

The room was dark, save for the flickering of the television set. Incandescent lighting was such a bother. He waited patiently, the glow casting a bluish tinge to his hair and skin.

Methodically, he removed the barrel from his gun, running his fingers over its steely surface reverently. This was his Armageddon. A tool with which he would make them pay. Every single one of them would pay.

He frowned suddenly. He hadn't been taking the women into account. Unfortunate. They would have to die as well.

At precisely 8.05 and 12 seconds, the story aired again, with a few more details; the police had decided to release the fact that the victim had been shot. The circumstances were no longer 'suspicious'; that was good.

He smiled again. Pretty soon, everything would start falling into place.


	4. The American

**Title:** The Serial: The American

**Blood Type: **There is none left to give.

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the _law_.

**Warnings:** None.

**Author's Notes: **Next up: Interlude!

---

K smoothed his fingers over the barrel of his revolver. Sleek. Smooth. .41 Magnum. Judy, named after his wife.

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever," she had said as she pressed it into his hand. This was followed by her breasts pressing against his chest and her lips pressing against his. "Now I'll always be by your side," she finished, breathlessly.

It was quite unlike her to be this sentimental, but he suspected that it was because they hadn't seen each other in weeks. Weeks that seemed like years and all they had had time for was a quick tumble in a hotel room. And even that had been adjacent to the airport.

Another kiss, one filled with longing and she was on the plane to Hong Kong, leaving him with his sleek new beauty, which he lovingly sheathed in his holster.

That had been a month ago, if not more.

K looked at his watch. 7.30 and 15 seconds. If the lead singer could actually be on time, he might actually have some semblance of a life. A family life. A sex life.

God, that would be great. An actual day that he could schedule to mesh with Judy's. He allowed something that he normally wouldn't: he fantasized.

He fantasized about Judy, her arms curling about his neck, nails fairly piercing his skin and in his mind she was slick with sweat. His sweat. Her sweat. Mingling, scenting the air. And afterward, afterward there would be time for a second round.

A car horn blared in their bedroom, loud and insistent. That was odd. He glanced to the side and saw one of those new hybrid vehicles. K realized that he was standing in the middle of the street. Simultaneously, he realized that Judy wasn't there and sighed.

Things were going to have to change, and soon. He was developing calluses that weren't from handling the veritable arsenal that he kept in his spacious closet.

He checked his watch again. 7.35 and 4 seconds. Nearly five minutes spent in a fantasy that would never happen if he kept having to rouse lazy lead singers from their beds in order to get some work done.

K closed his eyes. He loaded the blanks into his gun. He slowly counted to ten. By the time he got to nine, he felt much better and opened his eyes.

Shuichi was standing right in front of him, head bowed.

K closed them again. He opened them again. He closed them yet again. He opened them yet again.

Shuichi was still standing there.

K decided that it was best to thank his lucky stars.


	5. The Interlude II

**Title:** The Serial: The Interlude II

**Blood Type: **Pumpkin.

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the _law_.

**Warnings:** None.

**Author's Notes: **Next up: The Green Room!

---

He paced the room, thoughtful. He paused before the bulletin board and pondered the Polaroids tacked thereon.

His brow furrowed, gazing at the happy, smiling faces. The only face that wasn't smiling was—

He frowned and moved away from the photographs, reaching under his desk for the black briefcase. I His /I briefcase.

Time to switch tactics. He thumbed over the dials; the locks popped open with a decisive snap.

A dozen crystal vials containing a dozen crystal deaths. It was going to be a good day.


	6. The Green Room

**Title:** The Serial: The Green Room

**Blood Type:** None.

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the _law_.

**Warnings:** I wrote most of this during a poetry reading. Except for the middle bit, which has been on my plot chart for the better part of a week.

**Author's Notes: **If your roommate ever promises you hugs if you'll go to a poetry reading with her, run the other way. As fast as you humanly can.

---

Shuichi slipped into the green room solemnly. He sat down—if possible—even more solemnly. He nodded politely at his band mate, Fujisaki Suguru and best friend, Nakano Hiroshi. He then erupted into noisy tears.

K sighed from the doorway and went to retrieve his phone messages. From what he'd managed to get out of Shuichi, there were going to be quite a few of them. He started down the hall to his office then, upon noticing his fellow co-workers peering out of their own offices, turned around, and shut the door. Thankfully, this action dampened much of the noise emanating from the green room.

He walked down the hallway to his office.

At precisely 8.07, he reached for his briefcase. There were matters to be attended to.

---

"Shu, man, you've gotta pull yourself together," Hiro said, crouching down in front of the sofa that Shuichi was no longer sitting quite so solemnly on. "We're probably gonna have interviews later."

Shuichi looked up abruptly and quickly regretted doing so. The sudden movement had caused his neck to crack and the muscles to bind awkwardly.

This served to have two effects on the situation currently at hand. First, and most importantly, Shuichi ceased crying. Second, his mouth snapped open, almost as abruptly and emitted a shallow hiss.

"Why will we be interviewed?" Shuichi hissed.

"Sakano-san was shot," Suguru said somberly from his position in the corner, keeping his eyes on the muted television.

"Shot?" Shuichi rasped. "But, but—"

"That's what the latest newsflash is saying," Suguru said as he reached up and turned off the television.

"What are we supposed to say? How are we supposed to act? Where's K? Shouldn't he be _managing_ this?" Shuichi spluttered, voice cracking as the muscles in his neck decided to cooperate with his skeletal structure and stopped trying to secede. He massaged his neck, working out the nerves that were still a bit tingly.

Shuichi froze suddenly. "Do you think he fell in with the _Yakuza_?" he asked in a frantic whisper.

"Don't be stupid, Shindou. There's no way Sakano-san would ever be able to get into something like that."

"Well, how else would he have gotten shot?" Shuichi demanded, rounding on Suguru.

Suguru blinked. "There are other people who carry guns, Shindou."

"You can't," Shuichi paused, trying to work it all out. It wasn't working. "You can't," he repeated for clarification.

"He has a point, Shu," Hiro offered.

"How—how can you," Shuichi started. His brain seemed to be spluttering words at random. Wrench. Banana. Space Monkey. "How can you," he started again.

The door opened, squeaking on its hinges. A shadow fell over them.

"How can you," Shuichi demanded, rounding on the figure in the doorway. The figure was K, holding his briefcase in one hand, the other resting on the hilt of his .41 magnum.

"Time to go."


	7. The Restaurant

**Title:** The Serial: The Restaurant

**Blood Type:** Sudafed.

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the _law_.

**Warnings:** None.

**Author's Notes: **I'm not particularly happy with the way this turned out. Perhaps it's because Tetsuya is a character that is often overlooked and he's not dealt with very much canonly. Next up: The Reporter!

---

Ukai Tetsuya twirled his knife in a senile way. This helped perpetuate the belief that he actually _was_ senile, which in turn, helped him in more ways than one could even begin to imagine. For example, it kept the chefs in line. Especially after that time that he had fired one of the sous chefs for wearing a tie that didn't match his socks.

He twirled his knife in a senile way again, this time in time to his wife's music filtering through the speakers. This became a bit more difficult as the middle of the song had a fiddly piano bit that almost made him drop the knife. The fiddly bit was good, even if his accompanying knife twirling wasn't. Noriko had worked—slaved, really—over the pieces that were uniquely released for use in his restaurant.

The newest chef glanced askance and him. Tetsuya grinned a maniacally. The newest chef's eyes snapped forward, back to the side of beef he was slicing for shabu-shabu.

The maitre d entered the kitchen in a sycophantic fashion, which was the way that he always entered the back kitchen. In fact, it was the way that the maitre d did most things. Tetsuya didn't particularly like to be talked to in a sycophantic fashion, but most of his clientele was appreciative of someone who constantly tried to garner their favorable opinions. Since Tetsuya wasn't inclined to these behaviors himself, he had to hire someone who was.

"Sir," the maitre d said, straightening his eight thousand yen necktie. "Sakuma Ryuichi-sama is here."

Tetsuya twirled his knife in an idle and slightly less senile manner. Nevertheless, the maitre d took a step backward.

"He's requesting a…" the maitre d paused, obviously uncomfortable. "A bowl of ramen," he finished. He coughed once, straightened his necktie again and took another step backward.

Tetsuya's moustache twitched. This gave the appearance of being both an idle and senile gesture. He laughed raucously. "Yes, yes!" he exclaimed, moving over to his plum-colored countertop.

The maitre d exited the kitchen swiftly.

Tetsuya was overjoyed. Leave it to one of Noriko's friends to have such simplistic tastes! Every day, he had requests for the most bizarre combinations of food. Well-to-do people wanting something that no one had ever eaten before.

He chopped the vegetables for the ramen idly; to those watching, it appeared as though the knife were moving independently of its wielder.

He prepared the noodles. He prepared the broth. He garnished it. He rang for the waiter.

"Take this to table seven," he said, turning over his creation to the waiter.

The waiter bowed and spun neatly on his heel without spilling a drop.

Something was off. Something was not right. Tetsuya narrowed his eyes. There: a stain on the left sleeve of the happi coat.

"You. New waiter!"

The waiter froze and turned around slowly.

"There's a stain on your sleeve. All employees must maintain a pristine uniform at all times," Tetsuya said, ruffling his mustache in his senile way. "You must need glasses to have missed it!" he exclaimed angrily.

"I'm sorry, manager."

Tetsuya gave a booming laugh. "I'm not firing anyone today!" he said jovially.

"I'll take better care in the future, manager," the waiter replied, turning around again and exiting the kitchen. He took the bowl directly to table seven, setting it down with a flourish.

"Please, enjoy your meal," he said bowing.

---

Tetsuya surveyed his kitchen, grinning madly at the sudden efficiency of his staff. Aside from that everything was normal. Everything except for the vial on the floor. That shouldn't be there; someone could get hurt. He picked it up and put it with the others.

---

**Author's Note The Second:** Eight thousand yen is approximately eighty U.S. dollars.

Shabu-shabu is a dish made with vegetables and beef that is sliced extremely thin. It gets its name from the sound of the whisk as the ingredients are moved around in the pan.

A happi coat is a short kimono-like garment worn by shopkeepers and the like. It has shorter sleeves for ease of movement. Here, it is a part of the waiter's uniform.


	8. The Reporter

**Title:** The Serial: The Reporter

**Blood Type:** Comtrex.

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the law.

**Warnings:** None.

**Author's Notes:** So my roommate caught me trying to call Sakuma-sama a 'her'. Though it's been fixed, I don't think she has any room to talk as she accidentally left him in the fic she changed for her Advanced Fiction class.

--

Kazawa Akito stared over the rim of her glass, which was currently half empty. Her nose twitched, not in a senile or idle way, but in the way that a rabbit's nose twitches when it is scenting the air.

There! Sakuma Ryuichi-sama. She would have squealed with delight if she weren't so terribly emotionless. Still, she allowed herself a smile. Sakuma-sama was here without an entourage, here without Seguchi Tohma-sama. She couldn't believe her unbelievable good luck.

Akito watched as a nondescript waiter delivered a bowl of ramen to Sakuma-sama's table. A waiter who had a reddish stain on the sleeve of his happi coat. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. This was purportedly one of the best restaurants in all of Tokyo and they couldn't even be bothered to keep their uniforms immaculate.

Sakuma-sama mumbled something through a mouthful of noodles; he looked up at the pink rabbit draped over his head. He swallowed and spoke again.

"The waiter looked familiar?" Sakuma-sama questioned the rabbit.

Akito saw every word perfectly formed, even though she was not near enough to hear the question. She was glad that, as a reporter, she had seen it befitting to learn how to read lips.

Sakuma-sama's head snapped around to follow the path of the waiter; the rabbit slipped off the singer's head and flounced onto the table, one fuzzy, pink paw brushing the bowl of ramen. Not finding the waiter, Sakuma-sama looked back at his bowl.

"Silly bunny! Always tricksy!" Sakuma-sama gathered the rabbit up and sat it in his lap. "If you wanted some, you should have ordered some," he finished, picking his chopsticks up and bundling up some noodles into a little nest.

Akito sat back and toyed with her glass, tiring of watching the singer's conversation with his rabbit. There was no story there; everyone knew about the Sakuma-sama's relationship to and with his stuffed bunny. She watched as he gobbled up the rest of the noodles, picked more slowly at the vegetables and then, finally, drained the dregs of the bowl noisily before setting the bowl down with a flourish.

He smacked his lips. Akito licked her own.

Akito waited for her moment. An interruption, she knew, always should be expertly timed. She didn't want to seem overly eager, nor did she want to seem so apathetic about her interview prospect. The interruption should seem like nothing more than a chance meeting between entertainer and reporter, nothing more.

She tapped her glossy maroon nails on the base of her glass; she had never been a particularly patient woman and Seguchi-sama had been denying her this interview for weeks.

She attempted to distract herself, her eyes never leaving her quarry. She composed the first few questions of her interview in her head.

Sakuma-sama swayed in his seat.

Akito snapped to attention; her nails stilled their drumming. Now this was new. Her mind whirled with a thousand possibilities. Effects of some new medication? Drugs, maybe? Her breath hitched with the excitement of having a story that no one else would be able to get.

Sakuma-sama mumbled something she couldn't quite make out. He swayed again and clutched his stomach, toppling Kumagoro from his lap.

Akito got to her feet. This was beyond news. Something was terribly wrong!

Sakuma-sama collapsed.

Akito screamed.


	9. The Hospital

**Title: **The Serial: The Hospital

**Blood Type:** Phlegm

**Disclaimer:** Gravitation is not owned by me in any way, shape or form. But I have to obey it. Because it's the law.

**Warnings:** None.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter was unbelievably hard to write.

--

In her entire life, Yoshitomi Haruna had never lost a single patient. Not a single one in her five years of being an Emergency Room surgeon. And in those five years, she had treated some real heinous injuries. Case in point: two months ago, a man was stabbed by his wife's jealous lover right in the aorta; he'd lost a lot of blood, but she'd saved his life.

Today, she had lost two patients in the span of two hours.

In this case, it would be safe to say that Yoshitomi Haruna was not having a good day. She leaned up against the rough surface of the emergency entrance to the hospital and let the cold creep in through her smock. She took a drag from her cigarette, a cigarette she shouldn't have been smoking because she quit smoking three months ago.

The first had been a nearly lost case; Haruna had known that removing the bullet would have serious consequences. Not that it mattered; her patient hadn't wanted her to anyway.

--

With surprising quickness, her patient pinioned her wrist to the table on which he lay. The ring he wore was sticky with blood. It smeared over her non-latex gloves and onto her skin.

Haruna tried to pry his hand off her wrist. "I have to remove--"

"Don't." His voice was low, rasping. He tugged her further down; the movement caused the fine linen of his bloodstained shirt to fold back from his neck, revealing a smoky tendril of ink that crept over his shoulder.

Yakuza. The ring on his finger. Yoshitomi Haruna understood; it was to save his loved ones. She nodded and his grip slackened.

"Thank you," he mumbled as she watched the blood wept out of him. Funny. She didn't feel like she should be being thanked.

--

She felt guilty.

"Yoshitomi! What are you doing out here? You'll catch your death!"

Tanaka. Always worried about her health. "I'm smoking; I'm fine," she returned, a bit harsher than she had intended.

"I thought you--"

"Yeah, me too," she responded distantly, flicking the butt of the cigarette and watching the ashes float to the cracked sidewalk.

The second...

--

The second was Sakuma Ryuichi.

His vitals weren't good when he was rushed down the wide Emergency hallway and into Emergency Room 4.

Still, she had seen worse; she had brought patients back from worse.

She fed the tube down his throat and watched as the contents of his stomach were forcibly regurgitated. Although she had performed this same procedure numerous times before, she still gagged violently every time.

Today was no exception.

His vitals kept dropping; his heart rate was virtually non-existent.

Haruna watched the monitors as she drew a vial of blood to be tested. She was already crying; she didn't know how to fix this. Sakuma Ryuichi was going to die and there was nothing she could do.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," she whispered to Sakuma Ryuichi's silent form as he flat lined.

--

Yoshitomi Haruna took a last, long pull on her borrowed cigarette and promptly choked on it. She expelled the remaining smoke with difficulty and ground the cigarette out on the pocked brick wall behind her.

She would be hated. She would be lynched by hundreds of horrible fangirls. Haruna choked again, but this time it wasn't because of any lingering smoke.


	10. The Pianist

**Title:** The Serial: The Pianist

**Blood Type:** York Peppermint Patty

**Disclaimer:** I think it should be fairly obvious that I don't own Gravitation as I have minimal artistic skills.

**Warnings:** Swearing. Destruction of property.

**Author's Notes:** My apologies for the long hiatus. This chapter is dedicated to ashcat.

--

Ukai Noriko's stocking was slipping. Granted, her hands hadn't been exactly steady this morning, but she should have been able to put on her stockings without having them slip off the garter clasps in the car on the way to N-G Studios. Sliding the hem of her vintage Chanel dress up over her thighs, Noriko secured her stocking.

It had been Ryuichi that had convinced her to buy the damnable thing; what use did she have for a garter belt?

--

"Nori-chaaan!" Ryuichi poked his head around a table and held up a sateen garter, embroidered with cherry blossoms. "What about this one? I like the pink flowers! It's good, ne, ne?"

"I don't think so. It's too old fashioned."

"Eh? Really?" Ryuichi peered closely at the garter belt. "But old things have a place too, nanoda!"

--

"Ukai-sama?"

"Dammit," Noriko whispered, swiping a tear away with her handkerchief.

"We have reached N-G Studios," the driver ventured.

"Yes." Noriko smoothed her dress and rearranged the veil on her hat.

--

"Ne, Ryu, what _is_ this?" Noriko asked, poking the box on the green room table with her index finger.

"A hat, nanoda! A hat!" Ryuichi opened the box and took it out.

He was practically glowing over the thing. Noriko couldn't see why. The hat was an elaborate affair, the front being draped with a veil and one might say festooned with flowers.

"Yes, I can tell. But—" Noriko broke off as the hat was lovingly shoved into her hands.

"Happy birthday!"

--

"Yes, of course." It was time to go. The second her Gucci-clad foot hit the sidewalk, the photographers pressed in. When they saw her vintage cream-colored Chanel dress, the shouts started.

"Ukai-sama! Ukai-sama!" The reporters, photographers, everyone in Tokyo it seemed, had turned out in front of N-G to see how she would react.

"Ukai-sama! If I could have a word," a reporter with a tape recorder exclaimed, pushing forward and swiping curly black hair out of her eyes.

"You're Kazawa Akito," Noriko responded. Kazawa Akito had been at the restaurant. She had been all over the news, giving her first-hand account of what had happened. Noriko's fingers tightened around her vintage beaded handbag. "You can have two: fuck off."

"Ukai-sama, do you think—" Kazawa pressed on, shoving the tape recorder under Noriko's nose. She squealed as Noriko viciously snatched the recorder away.

"My husband has been detained for questioning with regard to the death of my friend and band mate," Noriko hissed, dropping the recorder to the ground before slamming her stiletto heel down on it. "So now you'll listen to me: get out of here. Stay away from me and my family."

--

"Cheers, Nori-chaaan!" Ryuichi cheered, raising his glass of beer.

"I don't think it's all that impressive," Noriko responded, swirling the ice in her glass.

"Naa it's the newest addition to the N-G family!"

"Family?"

"That's what we are! A family! Let's drink some sake to Saki!"

--

She had laughed that night. She had laughed until she cried.

--

**Author's Note The Second:** White was the color of mourning before Japan adopted the custom of wearing black. Noriko wears white because Ryuichi had a fascination with older things.


	11. The Interlude III

**Title:** The Serial: The Interlude III

**Blood Type:** House

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Maki Murakami's work.

**Warnings:** None

**Author's Notes:** After two years, I'm returning to the story.

--

The lure of the open road had called him away from Ukai Tetsuya's restaurant. Or perhaps it was that he'd finally finished iZen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance/i. Compelling, really. It had given him the urge to take up the hobby.

He smiled. Not his typical smile, no, but the one that he reserved for the most special of occasions. Had anyone been there, they might have described it as maniacal—or ecstatic. Possibly both.

There had been only two previous times he'd smiled this same smile. His thoughts tried to remind him of the first time, but he ignored them.

At precisely 4.12 and 36 seconds he wiped the wrench clean and dropped it back into the toolbox. He would be back in Tokyo before eight.


End file.
